Page 13 of The Making of Mila and Blake
I give in. Iamthe kind of person who has to help, even if I don’t exactly know how.
Carefully approaching so as not to spook him, I try to catch his eye. “Jason?”
Jason is too busy cursing at the curb to lift his head and look at me. Instead, he just flails his hand in my direction and snarls, “Who aretheyto tell me I can’t order another drink?”
I shuffle closer, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t apprehensive about how this will go down. Jason is in no mood to talk, clearly. “Jason, it’s Mila. I’m a friend of Blake’s. We’ve met before. A couple years ago,” I say softly. “Are you okay?”
Jason flicks his head up, his hair whipping around his face. “Mila,” he says. His glazed eyes try to study me, but they are too unfocused and bloodshot. “I remember you.”
“Are you okay?” I ask again.
“Oh, don’t you worry about me!” He lets out a cackling laugh, then actuallypats meon the head.I hope he can’t see me grimace. “Great to see you again, Melissa.” He tucks his hair behind his ears and then sets off, enjoying a very unbalanced stroll through the parking lot.
I gape after him, and when he nears Fairview Boulevard after walking straight into a car’s side-view mirror, I know I have to do something. I can’tlive with the guilt of leaving Blake’s dad to play chicken with traffic.
My heart beats fast as I grab my phone. It has been a long, longtime since I searched for his name in my contacts list. There was a time, two years ago, that all I ever did was stare at his name, contemplating whether to call him just onemore time. Now, however, there is no time to debate the matter. Has Jason fallen off the wagon again? He isn’t just a little tipsy like Aunt Sheri was last night, and I don’t think he should be drinking at all.
Keeping my eyes trained on Jason’s erratic movements, I swallow the lump in my throat and dial Blake’s number for the first time in forever. I should have deleted it by now, but I could never bring myself to put such a finality on things.
The stark dial tone grates on me as the call rings and rings and rings, and who am I kidding? Blake never answered my persistent calls two years ago. Why would he start now?
“Mila.”
My breath hitches.
“Blake,” I say.
Silence travels across the line. It was only last night that we saw each other, but hearing his voice now feels like the first time all over again. Like a fleece blanket straight out of the dryer on a rainy winter morning, that feeling of warmth and safety. Blake’s voice is the epitome of comfort to me, but why wouldn’t it be? During that summer when my world felt like it was imploding, Blake was the one who was there for me, who kept a smile on my face, who reassured me that things would turn out okay.
“Do you want to talk?” he asks, cutting through my thoughts.
Yes, I really do, especially after this morning’s shattering news, but that’s not why I’m calling. Jason meanders so close to the road that a truck honks and its driver gestures angrily at him. I grip my phone harder. “Blake, you need to come downtown. Right now.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Your dad is here,” I say. “Drunk.”
Blake takes a breath. “Shit. It’s not even lunch,” he says, then he mutters something unintelligible which I assume is more cursing. “Where is he?”
I squint across the lot. Jason is now chatting to some innocent bystander, their expression uncomfortable. No one likes engaging with a random drunk on the street. “Next to McDonald’s.”
I hear the jangle of Blake’s truck keys. “Mila?”
“Yeah?”
Blake’s voice softens as he asks, “Can you keep an eye on him until I get there?”
“Of course,” I say.
Blake cuts the call and the line goes dead, but I hold my phone against my ear for a few more seconds. I never knew how relieved I would feel to finally hear his voice on the other end of the line again.
I glance back at Dunkin’ Donuts. They’ll be waiting for me, wondering just how much fresh air I need, so I fire Dad a text and tell him I’ll walk the four miles back to the ranch. It’s a gorgeous summer’s day, after all, and I need to clear my head.
Jason is still pestering the poor man, who probably just wants to grab himself a Big Mac and get going. I shake my head in exasperation and then make a half-assed attempt at a jog across the lot to catch up to them.
“Really, they need to fire him. Who hires a kid to work the bar? There is no way–no way–that kid was over twenty-one!” Jason is ranting, and the man nods in agreement before flashing me a look of great concern.
“Jason, let’s go,” I say, reaching for his shirt sleeve in case I need to tug him away.
